Page 61 of That's Not a Thing

Me: OK.

I’m surprised when I get a reply in just a few seconds.

Aaron: I know this sucks. For me too. But it’s how it has to be, and the sooner we both accept that, the easier it will be. Good night.

It’s like he can see me in the bed, lying here in his ratty T-shirt, weeping for all that I’ve lost, for the pain that I know Aaron is feeling, as well.

Well, I won’t let him lose his mom, too, at least not without a fight. For once, I am going to do something properly.

Chapter Twenty-Three

June 2017

I’m finishing a second cup of my weak homemade coffee and waiting for the clock to strike 9:00 a.m. so I can call Gladys. She’s always been a painfully early riser, up with the sun, as she says, but I’m worried she needs more sleep these days and I’m afraid to disturb her by calling too early.

I hear movement in the hallway and look away from the computer printouts that I’ve been carrying around to see Wesley rolling toward me in his chair. The sound of his wheelchair against the wood floor makes me think of packing tape being ripped from cardboard, a repetitive tone of reluctance. As I watch him, I notice that like last night, he still looks fatigued, ill. I can’t put my finger on exactly what has changed recently, except that I can see extra effort in everything he does.

“Hey. Can I make you some toast?” I ask, glancing at my own piece of multigrain bread untouched on the porcelain saucer beside me.

“No, thanks.” He seems at a loss for a moment, his eyes scanning the closed wooden cabinets before they slide back in my direction, a look of defeat about him. We’re both silent for a beat, and I don’t know what is coming next, but then his cheeks lift a little and he says, “If you wanted to microwave one of those single-serve oatmeal containers for me, I wouldn’t argue.”

I hop off the stool and open the cabinet above the stove where we keep all the cereals. It would have been nice, I realize now, if we had thought to move those boxes to a lower spot, even the countertop, where Wesley could reach them without having to push out of his chair. I nudge the kitchen faucet, warming water to add to the container.

“Are you going to the restaurant today?”

“No.”

He doesn’t elaborate, so I turn to look at him. He’s staring out the window at the back of the kitchen.

“What is it? What’s happened?” I ask.

“Just all of it,” he answers, a blanket of resignation enveloping his voice. “I feel it taking over my body. I’m getting cramps in my back almost every night now, and I can barely even swallow my pills. I’m going to have to start opening them and putting them in applesauce soon. It’s just ...” He sighs. “This is really happening.” He looks at me for a moment longer, and I stare back, wondering what’s next, wondering when his motorized chair is coming, wondering if there is anything I can do to ease his burdens, wondering if I can ask without upsetting him.

“Anyway,” he says, making a clear effort to sound brighter, “remember my cousin Lulu?”

“Of course, I remember Lulu,” I say, thinking back to Wesley’s first apartment after college, the one-bedroom in Midtown that he shared with her during her first year of medical school. Lulu’s doting parents agreed to pay her rent each month, since she was still a student, and they didn’t retract the offer when she brought Wesley into the arrangement. He installed one of those temporary walls that we used to see in all our friends’ apartments, creating a makeshift second bedroom and securing free housing for himself. Lulu was so wrapped up in med-student life that she was basically never there. Even so, there’s no way I would have forgotten her. I fill the oatmeal container up to the designated line inside the container and shut off the water.

“Well, she’s in town from Nepal. She’s just here for a few hours on a layover to Miami. She’s coming to get me in an hour, and I guess we’ll go out for coffee or something.”

“Aaron is coming by at eleven to get some of his things. He asked me not to be here. I think he said the same of you, but he probably doesn’t care as much.”

“It’s fine. I’ll stay gone until noon.”

I put the oatmeal in the microwave and press a few buttons. I then take five steps away from the machine, a habit I developed as a kid when my mother convinced me that standing too close to a working microwave could cause sudden death. I almost want to laugh now, thinking of all the ways people try to protect themselves from harm, and then these cruel diseases strike at random, paying no heed to the merits of the person they attack.

“Yeah, I have to go to my office. I’m theoretically working for the next two weeks, even though they won’t let me see any privileged material anymore, which means I see nothing and do nothing.” The microwave beeps, and I set Wesley’s oatmeal down on the small table in the corner, along with a spoon. “I’m just going to show my face for a minute. I guess I’ll clear out a few things from my office.”

Wesley pulls his chair into the open spot at the table and picks up the spoon. He looks at me expectantly, like he wonders if I’m going to say more, and it dawns on me that he might not want me to watch him eat.

“In the meantime,” I add, “excuse me for a sec while I go call Gladys.” I grab my papers and head to the bedroom. I push the door closed behind me as the phone at Aaron’s parents’ house rings. I don’t want Wesley to hear if I start crying.

“Hello?” I hear Gladys’s loud voice shouting into the phone, the way she always answers a call, like she is surprised the phone has rung at all.

“Hi, Gladys. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Meredith? No, of course not.” I can hear her snort on the other end, her morning lark’s pride apparently offended.

“Listen, we need to talk,” I start, lowering myself onto the corner of the bed, feeling small.